


i dream of you amid the flowers

by sansbanshees



Series: Wayfaring Stranger [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Mild spoilers for the main story, Outlander AU, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:04:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7178867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansbanshees/pseuds/sansbanshees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is struck by her beauty at the strangest of times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i dream of you amid the flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Milee_Cosgrove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milee_Cosgrove/gifts), [eveninglottie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eveninglottie/gifts).



She is infuriating.

Abelas can think of no better word to describe her, the marked shemlen woman that Felassan snatched out of Andruil’s clutches. She is small, ill-tempered and combative, and she tries his patience by the second.

_Infuriating._

Perhaps she should have been left where she was found.

He does not truly believe that, of course, but the thought is an appealing one as he feels the heated anger of her gaze boring holes into the back of his head.

Perhaps he deserves it.

It is something of a comfort, the knowledge that he needn’t endure her for much longer. The All-Mother will see to this, take back the dangerous power seared into the woman’s hand, and if she is as innocent as she claims to be, perhaps she will be returned to her people. Where she goes is of little consequence. That she will be gone is all that Abelas cares about.

Soon.

* * *

She is—brave.

She does not falter before Mythal or anyone else, despite the pain and fear of her circumstances. She is too willful, perhaps, supplication a position she does not tolerate easily—or at all—but there is something admirable in it, the strength of the steel in her spine. She is afraid, he sees it in her eyes, in the uptick of her breath, but never once does she falter. Never once does she appear anything but prepared for every possible outcome.

He does not imagine that she would meet an execution with dignity, quiet or otherwise. No, she would fight. Spit. Curse. Take as many enemies with her as she could, make them work for every inch of the head they mean to take from her. There would be no begging, no tears, no cries for mercy. She would fight to her last moment.

He admires that. He would not conduct himself the same, but he admires it.

Should it come to that, he is prepared for the fight. He does not desire it, but he is prepared for it.

When the All-Mother makes her proclamations, Abelas holds his breath.

* * *

She is unexpectedly lovely.

Abelas does not expect to be moved one way or the other, when he comes upon her in the bath. It is empty and she is on her back, floating across the expanse of clear water, oblivious to his presence. He cannot recall a time that found him cognizant of a woman’s attributes in a communal bath and there is nothing overtly arousing in the sight of her now, but he is struck by a sudden flicker of softness for how small she truly is, how exposed, how calm she appears to be in the middle of an act she seems to enjoy.

He does not suspect that she will appreciate this. Perhaps she will think it leering. Her people’s perceptions are a mystery to him, one he had little interest in understanding beyond what was necessary, but her—he would like to understand her, he thinks. Because she is to stay. For how long, he is not certain, but given what he knows of the mistress he serves, it will not be a short duration. If they are to share a home, even one as large as this temple, there must be peace. Understanding her is but the first step to gaining it.

True to his expectations, she does not appreciate his presence here. The words they share are stilted and stiff, and she drags herself out of the water within moments. But she looks back before her departure from the room. He feels her gaze settle on his back and the length of time it stays there is something of a surprise to him.

Perhaps she deserves to see something of him, too.

He works his hair free of the braid that held it and sinks down into the water with a sigh. He does not pretend that she is not here, but he lets himself go as if that were the case.

One breath. Two.

And then she leaves.

An inexplicable flicker of disappointment rises in the wake of her absence.

* * *

She...does not dislike him.

There is something different in the way she takes him to task now. Something almost amused. Something vaguely like affection.

He does not think that he is imagining it.

She has been kinder all around these past few weeks. A by-product of the growing closeness between her and Mythal’s Wolf, Abelas assumes.

Perhaps that is not accurate.

Solas is not Mythal’s creature. He is pledged to no one, poised to assume power of his own if not for the obstacle the All-Mother’s huntress daughter poses. He has angered Andruil, offended her, and he is hunted just as surely as the shemlen. Outside of the temple, he is just as much at risk. Even inside of it his freedom is precarious. It is no wonder a bond has sprung up between them.

She softens in Solas’ presence. She speaks with him, laughs with him, learns all that she can of this place from him, what is expected of her and how far she can strain the edges of the rules. It is good that she has found a friend in him. More, perhaps. It is unwise, considering the target on his back and the arrow bound to strike its center someday, but her life is nothing if not fleeting. She may well reach the end of her span before such a thing occurs.

Abelas does not want to consider the likelihood that she will be struck down first. Perhaps he could have carried out the deed himself before if it was commanded of him, but he cannot know her and remain impassive to her fate.

No harm will come to her. He will not allow it. If she is to tend to the ills of the people, she will be protected until he can no longer draw breath.

It is not a promise. It simply is.

* * *

He is struck by her beauty at the strangest of times.

She is covered in substances he does not care to name, a sick child in her care. Abelas merely came to bring her supplies, he did not expect to find her with a young boy in her arms, her hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles on the his back to soothe him as he coughs in the aftermath of—well.

“Just leave them there,” she says with a nod to the shelves behind her. “Thank you.”

“Can anything be done?” He is not _adept_ at the art care-taking, but she looks tired, as if she has been occupied with this for hours. If he can shoulder the task, perhaps she can rest. “If I can be of assistance…”

The offer seems to surprise her. “No, I—it’s alright.” She smiles. “He’ll be fine once this is out of his system. From what his sister says, he ate something in the forest. Dark berries off a red stem.”

The boy’s eyes flutter and close during the explanation, the soft sound of his snoring soon filling the silence between words.

Evelyn sighs in relief. “Poor thing. Those berries will do it every time.”

“A red stem?” he asks.

She nods as she walks towards her adjoining room to lay the boy down on her bed to rest. Abelas follows her up to the doorway, lingers there as she tucks the boy in.

He makes a note to seek out the offending berries and remove them from the grounds, but then an idea occurs to him. “The baths are likely empty. If you wished to go, I would be glad to stay here in your stead.”

She casts him a dubious look. “You… don’t mind?”

“I do not.” And still, she appears indecisive. “I will retrieve you if he wakes.”

Indecision shifts into a guarded hope. “You’re sure?”

“I would not offer if I was not certain.” He gentles his voice, a wry smile forming. “You should accept. There is a—smell.”

She snorts. “You wouldn’t smell like a rose either if you were covered in what I’m covered in.” But then she nods, and smiles at him. “You’re not all bad, you know.”

“Tell no one,” Abelas advises her. “They will not likely believe it anyway.”

“Don’t be so sure,” she says. “They’re the ones that keep trying to convince me.”

She squeezes his hand in thanks before she departs. It is the first time that she has touched him without the influence of danger or panic. He feels the echo of it long after she is gone.

* * *

He dreams of her the next night. Of her smile, the fall of her dark hair against her skin, her willful ferocity at odds with the soft touch of her hands. It is a mostly innocent vision, one he considers kissing her in as she takes his hand in hers, but he wakes before he can decide.

His eyes open and he takes in a slow breath, painfully aware of the insistent hardness that thoughts of her so often produces these days.

He has been attracted to others before. He has bedded them to mutual satisfaction or taken matters into his own hands, little more than seeing to a need, and once it was done, it was done. Companionship is not forbidden to him, but he cannot see the kindness in keeping a lover when he cannot promise himself to them. He is already promised elsewhere. It is not an easy thing to give up, nor is it a hardship. It simply is.

He could do that now. He could bring himself the relief of a release, but it will not be a permanent solution. This will happen again.

And again.

And perhaps he does not want it to end.

In many ways, she is unlike anyone he has ever known. He is no stranger to women of great strength, women that will not be told what to do or when to do it. But Evelyn is human, fragile, more so than she would like to believe, and he cannot fathom so strong a will in so fleeting a form. There is a strength even in her kindness, a confidence in the care she gives to people that have lived the entirety of her lifespan ten times over and then some, and he admires her greatly for it.

He suspects that it is more than admiration, what he feels for her.

He closes his hand around himself and squeezes in an effort to ease the pulsing strain, but the touch—is a mistake. He loosens his hold and is met with an immediate ache, one that will not be denied, and so he commits to relief, even knowing it will only be temporary.

It is only practical. He can run on little sleep, but it would be best if he does what he can to reach it. There is no reason not to tonight.

He does not pretend that his hand is hers, but he does wonder how she would do this as he slowly strokes himself. How hard she would grip him. How fast she would go. She is confident and thorough and her touch would reflect that, he thinks, so he firms his hold, slows his motions to drag them out across every inch of skin. She is kind but also seems to enjoy causing him grief, so he does not move any faster even when his hips twitch up in a bid for the friction that more speed would provide.

It is torture. Interminable torture. Frustration rises alongside an irritated flicker of affection and he huffs something like a laugh, because this is where he thinks she would smile. Only when it starts to pain him not to does he move any faster, his fingers sticky with the fluid dragged down by his foreskin. She would laugh too, he thinks. Not cruelly, but she would laugh. Draw this out. Relish every moment of this power over him. And he would let her. He would. Because he cannot imagine _not_ putting himself in her hands if anything more intimate than a greeting were to pass between them.

He would do anything she asked of him.

His heart races as he strokes himself faster, his breath coming in quick pants. He feels tight all over, coiled up and ready to snap. He gives up on stroking and simply holds his hand steady and thrusts into it, his other hand coming down to squeeze the inside of his thigh, his legs splaying open wider as he thrusts up. Pressure builds at the base of his spine, little bursts of pleasure flowing outward. His breath catches in his throat at a pulse of pure heat that makes him shudder and he knows, he knows this will not last long.

What she would do next, he cannot begin to guess. There is an unpredictability to her that intrigues him. Would she simply work him like this to completion? Would she kiss him? Would she whisper soft, quiet encouragement in his ear? Or would she bend down and take him into her mouth? Would she curl her tongue around the tip of him and bob her head in time with her hand?

Both. Neither. Something else altogether. It does not matter what she would do, it only matters that she would do it. He would take whatever she saw fit to give and it would be everything simply because it was her. Even nothing. Even if his desire for her amounts to nothing more than his own fumblings to abate it. It is enough that he cares for her. He needs nothing but to know that she is whole and well.

He groans as quietly as he can manage, grunts behind the set of his teeth in his lower lip as he reaches a climax. He strokes himself through it as his hips twitch and jerk, bursts of fluid coating his fingers as he drifts slowly out of the rigid grip of release.

He cannot remember the last time he felt so boneless.

He cannot remember the last time he felt this way about someone.

He does not know what to do with either one.


End file.
